The Flame and her Shadow
by PotterIsMyPatronus
Summary: a series of drabbles about James and Lily. 'Red flames ravaged a cold grey sky, and emeralds shedding crystalline diamonds rested in pristine porcelain.' 'The shadow followed, picking his way through her paths in the grass, a silhouette against her radiance, with eyes damaged by her beauty, a crown inked in with a fountain pen and eyes of hazel.'
1. The Storm

_**A/N: This is going to be a series of James/Lily drabbles, but some may be angsty. Reviews would be brilliant, because I love knowing what you think of my work. Thank you.**_

* * *

*** death is certain for birth.**

**is birth certain for death?**

**post-birth is pre-death.**

**it is like go around and return.**

**post-death is pre-birth.**

**it is like stay and remain. ***

**-anees akbar**

* * *

Red flames ravaged a cold grey sky, and emeralds shedding crystalline diamonds rested in pristine porcelain. Smoke billowed into the air behind the ruin, smelling of gunpowder. The storm's haunting melody rang through a valley without flowers. Grass tickled, thistles prickled, clouds thickened and breathing quickened, feeding fire, polishing emerald and diamond, stroking porcelain.

The shadow followed, picking his way through her paths in the grass, a silhouette against her radiance, with eyes damaged by her beauty, a crown inked in with a fountain pen and eyes of hazel. He hadn't a choice but to follow the flames, for without the light he would die, as he was a shadow, and that is what shadows do without light.

But come his death would be birth, and after the fire finished fighting the flowers and the shadow stopped following the fire, there would be Lily, and there would be James, and they would be the storm.


	2. Wanting Lily Potter

*** for the moon never beams without bringing me dreams**

**of the beautiful annabel lee;**

**and the stars never rise but i feel the bright eyes**

**of the beautiful annabel lee;**

**and so, all the night-tide, i lie down by the side**

**of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,**

**in the sepulchre there by the sea,**

**in her tomb by the sounding sea. ***

**-annabel lee, edgar allen poe.**

* * *

Lily Evans. The name rolls off your tongue, sweeter than Honeydukes chocolate, easier than blinking and breathing—although even that seems hard when she's around.

You try again.

Lily Potter. This one tastes even nicer. Yes, this one has to stick.

Flicking her fountain of flaming hair, the angel in question walks past your table in the library, a Charms textbook clutched to her chest, her eyes deliberately avoiding you.

"Oi, Potter!" you yell.

She keeps walking. You suppose she's not used to her new title yet.

"Potter!"

Nothing.

"_Evans!_"

She turns. "What? Why were you calling me Potter, Potter?" She marches over to you and around the table until she reaches your side, slams her book down and glares, her eyes bright with passionate anger.

To you, there is nothing more beautiful than Lily when she's angry.

"Well?"

Taking in Lily's pose—her hands on her hips, her hair behind her shoulders and her eyes cold—you smirk and say innocently, "Oh, Lily, didn't you get the memo?"

Lily raises an eyebrow. "Memo? What memo?"

"We're going to be married," you announce, as if it was obvious all along.

Lily laughed. "Oh, really?"

You nod.

"How did you come up with that, then?" your future wife asks. She's smirking and a butterfly flaps its hopeful wings in your stomach. You can't help but feel proud that you've earned her approval.

"I just know it," you say. "I take one look at you and I think, I am going to marry that girl. And probably have numerous children with her."

"Bet you're looking forward to that part."

"Definitely. Around seven of them?"

"Seven minimum," Lily jokes along, now perched beside you on the table.

"And they'd all look like me," you laugh, "because with genes like mine you can't let them go to waste."

Lily mock-slaps you on the arm.

"And a couple of redheads too. Hopefully not many of them will inherit my eyesight—"

"God forbid that happens, because you are _blind_!"

You laugh again—why is it you laugh so much around Lily?—and, drunk with your success so far, wrap your arm around your angel's shoulders.

With a snort she shrugs your arm off. "I never said I'd say yes."

As she walks away, you sigh and return to your neglected essay. You really want it.

You want what the future had to hold, and you wanted to see Lily in a white dress, her hair up, her eyes smiling, a bouquet of roses in her hand…

You want to wrap your arms around her as you curled up in a bed, content with your afterglow, and you wanted to plant little kisses on her neck and shoulder and you wanted to whisper sweet things into her ear as she went to sleep so she would dream beautiful dreams.

You want to see her holding your first child, giant green eyes peering up from a tiny crumpled face, and you want to feel its soft weight in your arms, and let your eyes absorb and memorise every feature, and you want to kiss its forehead and see Lily smiling and hold her and your child so tightly that they'd never be able to get hurt ever again.

And then you couldn't think about you want.

You drop your quill.

You just sit there.

And want.


	3. Sad

*** sad for a cruel truth not even dreams can survive,**

**sad without dreaming,**

**sad of nothing to hope for,**

**sad for still seeing beautiful things worth for you to know,**

**sad... **

**just what she is not. ***

**-The Title Should be Sad Sad Sad, Paul de Chavez**

* * *

Her laugh rings in your ears, the laughter of a child. Twilight makes the world a golden-pink melt around you, and she's chasing the last clouds behind the dark trees of the Forbidden Forest. She is fitting herself together around you and the world like a jigsaw puzzle, and in her eyes you can see that she's listening. She's noticing.

Looking at such a beautiful thing is making your insides twist. One touch could break her. She is vibrant glass. She is sunsets over tropical islands. She is both a snowstorm and a volcano eruption. She is ash and ice and magma and fire and water and nature, all combined into one beautiful flower of a girl.

This white lily is many things.

But she is not sad.


	4. Just a Bird

*** summer, do your worst!**

**light your tinsel moon, and call on**

**your performing stars to fall on**

**headlong through your paper sky;**

**nevermore shall i be cursed**

**by a flushed and amorous slattern,**

**with her dusty laces' pattern**

**trailing, as she straggles by. ***

**-August, Dorothy Parker.**

* * *

"Give up, mate, she's just not into you," Peter says to you.

Shooting him a glare, I mutter, "It's not that simple."

Remus's eyebrows draw together, and Sirius is scowling.

"I just can't get her out of my head. I want to give her up. I know it'll never happen. But my mind just won't let me, and the things I say sometimes aren't what I mean to say, or they come out wrong, you know, and she gets offended because she thinks I mean them when I don't because I don't want to hurt her. She makes my hair stand on edge," you complain.

Sirius glances up to your inky nest of hair and says, "We can tell."

With a growl, you try to flatten it as your friends dissolve into laughter around you.

Just then, the object of your fancy comes dancing into the room—although she's walking, but her pale limbs move with the fluidity of a ballet dancer, her hips gently swaying like palm trees in the breeze, her skirt brushing the skin just above the knees of her long legs—and your friends shut up.

"Look at her. Can't you see it?" you ask desperately.

Emotions flit through you as you watch your friend's face crumple. He says, "She's just a bird, Prongs."

She isn't just a bird. She is the rising sun. She wakes you up in the morning, and has the most brilliant yet opinionated mind you have yet to see. Her eyes have seen too much for her age, and her hair is the same brilliant scarlet as her personality. Change, creation, passion, fire; James has been hooked since the first word.

When she walks past you, she leaves a streak of patterned light behind her. She changes everything she touches.

"Hey, Lily? Go out with me?" you ask playfully. Against your will, your infamous smirk crosses your face. Maybe to hide the hopelessness you feel.

You shouldn't smirk at Lily, and you don't want to. You smirk at some girls, and Lily is definitely not _some girl__._

"_No_!" she yells at you, before stalking away to where her friends were.

Laughing, you hide your humiliation and once again give up.

You know it won't last.

You love her, you know it, but she's just not that into you.


	5. Stone Heart

*** and couldn't it be i was young and mad**

**if ever my heart on my sleeve i wore?**

**there's many to claw at a heart unclad,**

**and little the wonder it ripped and tore.**

**there's one that'll join in their push and roar,**

**with stories to jabber, and stones to throw;**

**he'll fetch you a lesson that costs you sore:**

**scratch a lover, and find a foe. ***

**-ballade of great weariness, dorothy parker.**

* * *

Lily had a heart of stone.

She didn't cry at little stories that her friends read, like how a little boy of five saved his sister from a burning house, or how a young girl recovered after being diagnosed with terminal cancer, or how Muggle hospitals had figured out a cure for an illness, and had saved millions of childrens' lives. Sure, they were sweet, but they didn't trigger the waterworks.

People didn't like her very much, and this was probably due to Severus. Even when that little friendship ended, she didn't regain the trust of her Housemates. She had her friends (or she _did_) and the people in her year seemed friendly, but the gleams in their eyes told her otherwise.

She just got used to it. _Sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never hurt me._

However, she received a valuable lesson about that.

"Lily."

"Go away, Potter," she hissed.

Fingers wrapped around her thin wrist. She couldn't tug free.

"Let me go, Potter!"

"I just came to apologise about yesterday. I honestly didn't know that Marlene would take it that seriously," James tried to explain.

With a giant burst of force, Lily broke free. "I don't care. I don't care what you meant. All I care about is the fact that my best friend now hates me because she thinks that I've been slagging her off behind her back!" Lily yelled.

"I didn't mean it!"

"I don't care whether you meant it or not, like I said before. You did it. It's your fault."

James's eyes narrowed behind his glasses, and Lily could see her blazing hair, flushed face and spiteful eyes glaring back at her in the lens. Is that what James saw? "It's not my fault!" he snapped.

Lily gritted her teeth and said, "If you weren't so useless, maybe you'd be able to do people some good instead of ruining their friendships time and time again."

James gasped. The last remnants of a smile slipped out of his eyes. In a wave of ice in his eyes, he shattered.

"God, Evans, how could one person be so cruel? You are the nastiest, most spiteful girl I have ever met. No wonder you don't have any friends. Who would want to be friends with you? I was just speeding up the inevitable. You could have waited, and it would have hurt more. They'd have left you anyway. See, Snivellus isn't here beside you, and neither is Marlene, or Mary, or Dorcas, or Alice. They'd grown tired of you a long time ago, and who can blame them?"

Something glistened on James's cheek—a tear. He walked away.

* * *

_Who would want to be friends with you?_

_Who, Lily?_

_Who?_

* * *

Lily began to cry, hiding her face in her hands and shaking with the force of her sobs. She was bleeding agony from her chest wound, and James's words were a bent dagger in her head, clinging onto her with the hook.

Even with a heart of stone, if someone stabs you hard enough, it still leaves a wound.


	6. Lonely

*** i never caused a thought of gloom,**

**a smile of joy since i was born**

**in secret pleasure - secret tears,**

**this changeful life has slipped away;**

**as friendless after eighteen years,**

**as lone as on my natal day. ***

**-i am the only being whose doom, emily brontë.**

* * *

You're used to being lonely.

You're always lonely. Growing up in a Pureblood household isn't as easy as many people – especially Lily – think it is.

You would peep in through the doorway of the main lounge to witness your parents screaming at each other, and from your vantage point you would see your father ruffling his hair (which you inherited) and your mother sobbing. They would say words like 'threatening' and 'blood traitors' and 'Muggle-borns', and you wouldn't understand what you meant. Fear would grow inside of you, and eventually you would run upstairs to your room and hide under your bed, trying not to listen. Portia, the house-elf that looked after you, would slink inside and ask if you were okay, and you would tell her to go away, and she would.

Yes, you're used to it by now.

Things didn't change when you came to Hogwarts, or in the six years after. You're still as lonely as ever. Friends have nothing to do with it. Of course, you have Moony and Padfoot and Wormtail, and many of the people in your year worshipped you, but you're alone. Like there's a giant hole in your stomach that nothing will fill.

Sometimes, that hole does fill, if only for a little while. You patrol the castle with the cure by your side. A fiery waterfall of red hair, curled gently at the tips, floats behind her like a bloody veil. Echoes fill the hallway as she scuffs her shoes against the floor.

She gives you a meaningful look, her lips pressed together in a taut line.

You like to think you were like your parents – you hide your emotions. Born in secret pleasure, and secret tears. Never in your life had your parents ever truly smiled at you.

But she does, now. Green leaves sparkle with morning dew in her eyes, as she draws each corner of her mouth up like curtains.

You smile back.


	7. It Wasn't Your Fault

*** back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,**

**with the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!**

**blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,**

**when they shot him down on the highway,**

**down like a dog on the highway,**

**and he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat. ***

**-the highwayman, alfred noyes**

* * *

Arms hugging her jean-clad knees, Lily sat on her double bed, gazing out onto the peaceful streets of Godric's Hollow through the window. Streetlights shone warmly down onto the wet cobbled streets, the moon hung from the threads of the night and people laughed, twirling under the glow the lights emitted.

Darrell had died. _Died_.

But how? Never in a million years would Lily suspect that Darrell Riley of all people would be murdered by Death Eaters. He was one of the best in the Order!

_It's my fault._

If only Lily could have got there fast enough—if she hadn't frozen up and panicked—then he would still be alive.

_I watched him die before my eyes and I did _nothing.

Her crimson hair was tied in an intricate Celtic love knot at her nape; her toes wiggled in her socks and her hands fiddled with her wedding ring.

_It's my fault_.

On hearing the familiar footsteps of James coming up the stairs, Lily shuffled hastily into the bed, yanked the duvet over herself and pretended to be asleep.

James approached the bed, his own socks rubbing against the rug.

He knew she was awake; he always knew.

Soft as the wings of a dove, her name was whispered into her ear, and arms wrapped around her waist. Static electricity prickled her skin for a second, but she allowed herself to be pulled back against a warm, solid body.

_It's my fault_.

Lily rolled, shifted in James's arms until they were both comfortable, and sobbed into his shoulder. Warmth enveloped her. His arms tightened.

Twirling his finger around the wisps of red that had come loose from the love knot, James crooned the only thing that could have helped.

"It wasn't your fault."


	8. Friend or Foe

*** i was angry with my friend:**

**i told my wrath, my wrath did end.**

**i was angry with my foe:**

**i told it not, my wrath did grow. ***

**-the poison tree, william blake.**

* * *

"How could you do that to him?" you scream at Sirius. "Merlin, Padfoot, _how_?"

Grey eyes meet hazel as Sirius looked up. "I thought it was the right thing."

"The right thing? They both could have died, Sirius! Moony would never be able to forgive himself, if you succeeded in what you were trying to do tonight."

Sirius bows his head in shame.

"I can't believe this." You begin to walk away.

"I'm sorry," Sirius whispers.

You look back. "Sorry isn't good enough. I am so angry at you."

"I understand," he says.

You leave.

* * *

You glare at the skinny, greasy-haired git before you.

"You like her, don't you?" he sneers.

You stay silent.

"Not so scared without your cronies, are you, Potter?" He cocks his head to the side, eyes glittering with spite.

Hands clenched into fists, you hiss, "You like her too, I know you do."

"So this is war, then?"

Nothing passes your lips, despite the many phrases—most… colourful in language—that want to.

"For her?" Snape holds out a pale, skeletal hand.

Gingerly, you take his hand and shake it, your skin crawling as you feel his sweaty palm on yours. "For Lily."

"May the _best_ man win."

"Oh, he will," you taunt, before striding away.


	9. To Die a Hero

*** let me die a youngman's death,**

**not a free from sin tiptoe in**

**candle wax and waning death;**

**not a curtains drawn by angels borne**

**'what a nice way to go' death. ***

**-let me die a youngman's death, roger mcgough**

* * *

Ever since you've been little, you've wanted to die a hero.

You've seen many of your family members die peacefully, quietly, gently, and you don't want that. You want to die in the middle of something huge, and look young and vivid in your coffin.

More importantly, you would like to die saving somebody else. That would make it worthwhile.

And so, when you saw the black silhouette approaching your house, when you saw a streak of red past you, and when you saw the glow of green eyes in your peripheral vision, you knew what to do.

It was like a jolt of lightning down your spine, and although you didn't have a wand—or your sanity, for that matter—you still knew.

This was your chance.

To die a hero.


	10. The World's a Stage

*** all the world's a stage,**

**and all the men and women merely players; ***

**-the world's a stage, william shakespeare.**

* * *

Blonde curls brushed your cheek as you cuddled on the sofa of the Gryffindor Common room with your latest girlfriend, Susan Winter. Her eyes were as blue as a summer sky, and her hair was as light and bouncy as the clouds in it, shaped into a style like Marilyn Monroe's.

"Jamie?" she muttered, white fingers linking into your bronze.

"Mm?" you replied, trying to ignore how much you hated when people called you Jamie.

Baby blue eyes fixed onto your own hazel set. "Do you love me?"

You could honestly say that Susan was the sweetest girl you had ever met; sugar was humbled by her. Cherry tears was glossy on her lips. When shy, she looked down, her black lashes brushing her rosy cheeks, and the left corner of her mouth twitched. If any sort of innocent angel existed, she would be the perfect description. In fact, you could picture pristine, pure feathered wings unfolding from between her shoulder blades.

But you always thought about someone else. This girl was Susan's polar opposite, all fury and anger and contradiction. Hell best befitted her, as opposed to Susan's pale Heaven, as pretty as the angry girl was. You could see her in the corner of the room right then, giggling about something her friend had said, her blood-crimson hair coiling and curling at the small of her back. You could remember her defiant face perfectly—Satan's wrath burned in her eyes whenever you said the right thing, and to you, nothing was prettier than her vivid eyes when she was truly angry.

It didn't matter how much you liked Susan...

You did not love her.

Then again, you were always a great actor.

The show must go on.

"Of course I do."


	11. Thank You

_prompt: "Feelings aren't Quaffles, you can't just throw them around whenever you please and expect me to enjoy it!"_

* * *

*** 'just get over it, ' they say**

**i wish i could find a way**

**living with it day by day. ***

**-just get over it, udiah.**

* * *

"Just get over it," you say, chasing Lily down the dark corridor of the castle.

She keeps walking, her back to you, her hair bouncing and coiling behind her. "I won't!"

Rolling your eyes, you reply, "Grow up, Evans."

"It's not that simple."

She picks up the pace; you pick up yours. "How was this insult any worse than the others, or any worse than the ones you shoot at me?"

Unexpectedly, she turned, and you almost trip over with the shock at all of a sudden having two emerald eyes and waves of red hair inches from your face. "It's the principle!" she yells at you, before drawing back and putting a metre between you.

You cock an eyebrow.

With a little gasp that scares you, she wraps herself in her arms and says, "This isn't one giant Quidditch game, Potter. I'm not a Snitch for you to catch. My feelings aren't Quaffles, you can't just throw them around whenever you please and expect me to enjoy it!"

Her eyes are watering. Behind the misty tears you can see something breaking; you really hurt her this time.

Without thinking about it, without stopping to imagine the possible consequences, you lean forward, replace her arms with your own and hold her against your chest. It's perfectly chaste – just a regular hug – but you can hear her heart against you. Wisps of red tickle your face.

"Thank you," she whispers into your ear, before wriggling out of your arms and darting off down the corridor.

Soon, like a candle being blown out, she was gone.

You're alone, a shadow once more.


	12. Beautiful

*** i don't work that way, it's too difficult to not revel in the truth and bask in the glory of what is beautiful ***

**-unknown**

* * *

Summer was cast along the sky like a diamond-dewed cobweb, stretching golden threads along blue.

Daisies, blinding white with their explosion of lemon centres, bowed under its weight, their leaves brushing so gently against the razor blades of grass. The young bled purple in their core, and the old shrivelled and buckled in limbo. It was a fierce circle. These sets of flowers blooming would not be summers last, but their pure faces would most definitely be the widest.

Bordering the little field over which the cobweb hung were trees, dark trees, silhouettes of trees, and their shadows cowering from the dimming light. No eye could penetrate the unknown behind those trees, not even the eyes of the flowers, yet most turned away, not even bothering, not even daring.

Foolish things.

And yet, you stood there, bold as brass, amongst the grass, fragile as black glass, your glasses slightly tilted on your nose.

Her hand, her porcelain hand, was in yours, and your hand, your torn hand, was in hers. Her eyes, her piercing eyes, were locked on yours and your eyes, your blunt eyes, were locked on hers.

Ribbons of red rushed like blood down her back, cascading down like a split vein.

Beyond you, clocks tick in shops, filling the air with their rhythmic chiming. Yellow birds chirp at the hour, as the cobweb frays under the weight of the fly. Sometimes, you wonder if you should be elsewhere, instead of standing- just standing- with her, rooted in the grass like the weeds beside you, as time flows by. Maybe you are a weed. A simple weed, holding onto the dream of being a flower, like _her_.

But the future is to painful to deal with. Slowly, you raise her hand, her porcelain hand, to your lips and kiss the bruised knuckles. Between you both, even in the silence only disrupted by the splitting of silk in the web, there is love. Love. Something she was so full of in everything she did that it hurt not to reciprocate.

And just then, standing side by side beneath that stained sunset, it was so difficult not to revel in the fact that she loved you, and you her, and oh Merlin your mind swam with the orange glory of it.

And oh God it was beautiful.


	13. Chicken Dreams

*** last night i dreamed of chickens, there were chickens everywhere, they were standing on my stomach, they were nesting in my hair ***

**-last night i dreamed of chickens, jack prelutsky**

* * *

As the dawn broke over the horizon, you woke up amongst a tangle of bedsheets. Your nest of hair was knotted and splayed over the pillow, which was crinkled. On the floor were an assortment of teddies that you knew weren't yours, brutally murdered by you in your sleep and cast away in disgrace. You can feel their glassy eyes on you, and knew that in their tiny cotton-wool brains they were plotting your imminent decease. You must escape.

But in your cocoon of blankets, you couldn't so much as move an inch, unless you resorted to wiggling like a worm to safety. You were about to kick your legs to free yourself when you heard a soft, sleepy sigh to your left.

Close to you, a girl lay. Her red hair streamed over the pillow, her pale arms hugged the duvet tightly to her chest, her eyelids were violet under the dim light and her teeth were nibbling on her lower lip.

Sometimes you forgot that she was going to be there in the morning. Sometimes you doubted she would be; after all, she was so perfect, why would she stay for you of all people?

But she wasn't perfect, she wasn't, and even now you can see the imperfections.

She has spots on her forehead, and her eyes are a tad too big (they're massive), her ears a tad too small (you think they're cute, though), her breasts a tad too small as well (for your liking, that is) and she's a tad too short (five foot three isn't very tall - you have to lean down to kiss her).

But you love her for it. You love her for her wild, thick hair, her funny faces, her abstract mind, her laugh, and the way she loves you with every inch of her being. If this was how you would have to live your life forever, you'd take it, oh God, you'd take it and thank Merlin every night for giving her to you.

She makes a soft noise, and one of her eyes flutters open. Their piercing green seeks you out, and a drowsy smile slips onto her face. Raising her hands to her hair, she yawns, kicking away the blankets like you were unable to. You can't resist wrapping her up into your arms and kissing her softly.

"Nice dream, Lil?" you ask.

With a laugh, she snuggles into your chest. "I dreamed of chickens."

God, you loved her.

"I _have_ been having cravings for eggs, lately. Maybe the chickens are there to avenge the murder of their young. Or maybe I'm just pregnant," Lily giggled.

You rest a hand against the small swell of her belly, barely noticeable but there. "I'll go with the latter."


	14. Valentines' Day

*** you're a gift from the angels**

**they made you in heaven**

**the girl that i dreamt about**

**since i was eleven ***

**-a thought true to you**

* * *

"Happy Valentines' Day!"

"Potter."

"I didn't know what your favourite flowers were, so I got you lilies, just to be on the safe side, you know?"

"_Potter_."

"This would look lovely in your hair. I've always liked that hair, you know. Perhaps it's even as nice as mine, which, if I do say so myself, is a great achievement."

"What are you _doing_?"

"Am I not allowed to show affection to the apple of my eye on the day of love?"

"The apple of your- Potter, shove off!"

"Do not be childish, pretty Lily! We are sixteen, almost adults, and it's time that we began acting like them!"

"You're doing a fantastic job of that."

"Thank you. Take the flowers."

"I don't want the bloody flowers!"

"Take them! You're bruising my ego!"

"It deserves to be bruised; it's far too swollen anyway- did you just throw _flowers _at me?"

"No, I handed them to you with force and you didn't catch them."

"They could have taken my eye out!"

"Because flowers are very menacing. Look at those petals, clearly capable of murder."

"They are pretty pointy."

"Like your tongue."

"And you would know?"

"God, I wish! ...OW!"

"You deserved it."

"And all this because I gave you a bunch of flowers?"

"Bunch of flowers. Hah."

"I did! Look at them, on the floor, rejected. Look at their self esteem practically dribbling out of them, Evans. You are a heartless bully."

"And _you _are insane!"

"That goes without saying, pretty Lily."

"This isn't getting anywhere."

"It would have if you'd have taken the goddamn flowers!"

"I don't want the goddamn flowers, how many times do I have to say it before it gets drilled into your puny little mind? What the fuck would I do with a bunch of flowers? Do I look like the type of person to keep a vase at the ready on my bedside table? What am I supposed to do, slowly watch them wither and compare that to your love for me?"

"I don't know, but I can feel my love for you withering right now."

"Good, because maybe then you'd stop asking me out!"

"You love it."

"I do not!"

"Subconsciously, the attention keeps your self-confidence up."

"Hah!"

"You may scoff, but I am talented at psychoanalysis."

"Are you calling me psychotic?"

"I knew better than to bother you in the morning. I knew better."

"Then why did you even bother?"

"It's Valentines' Day, Evans! One must take risks for the sake of love!"

"I thought your love was withering."

"It bloomed once more."

"Oh, joy."

"So…how about going out with me?"


	15. The King of the Flies and his Butterfly

**I did another chapter after a long time. I'm not sure if I like this one. Do you? Please review.**

* * *

with a guilt feeling inside your chest.

looking out the window, not ready to break down yet;

i don't wanna be loved, i want honesty.

truth be told, i'm not that girl you once loved *

-silence is my loudest cry, atonisha bibb

* * *

She's there, cheeks aflame like her storm of hair. Silence has surged around the Common Room like a tidal wave; all were waiting for the next move, ears pricked for the gasping of her voice, eyes wide for the shimmering of yours. All was still, like water settling. Nobody spoke. You dreaded to.

Of course, Lily would be the one to shatter the peace. "_Well?_"

Your eyes narrowed to slits. "What?"

"Aren't you going to say anything?"

"I just did."

She laughed as bitterly as a winter blizzard before storming off to the corner of the room, where her gaggle of gossiping girls - gang members - gasped and gagged. Bile stung your throat.

Gazing down her body, through every fold and weave and sliver of pale skin visible, you longed to wrap her up in a chrysalis, embed her in silk, let spring kiss away her anger. You wanted to peel back the barriers from her porcelain back and bite the shoulder blades softly until wings could blossom. Every torturous inch of her neck was one that could be marked with love bites. The space between her socks and the start of her skirt could be licked until she was screaming at the heavens in pleasure instead of you in rage.

As if reading your mind, she glared at you from across the room, fanned out her hair until her face was hidden from view and sulked.

She was careful to avoid you from then.

It was a matter of time before you got her alone. Night was crossing the sky like a star-studded blanket, the drowsy daylight melting into orange. Her skin was pink in the light and her hair almost purple but her _eyes _- they were as green as the word green and if anyone asked you to describe green you would be looking into those eyes and you would describe the leaves and the grass and the trees and the jungles and canopies and spice and lust and how you could stalk through those eyes like a hazel tiger chasing its prey and each pupil was a black rose expanding as they dilated when they found yours - they were green. Wisps of hair fell into them, cushioned by her dark eyelashes. She held her ground.

That didn't last very long. As you approached, she backed into the wall of the corridor until the cold, aged, weather-beaten stone bit into her back. You hoped they were scratching her, you longed to see those wings.

You feared this would be the only time you would be able to stare so you stared. You took in the shapes and edges of her, the scars on the backs of her hands, her bitten fingernails, how narrow her hips were, how there was no gap between your thighs - you didn't see the allure of it anyway - how her hands were proportioned to her legs and her shoulders, and how she held her head as if there was a crown on it. There probably was. She was the Butterfly Queen and would not be intimidated by fools, especially not fools like James Potter, like you.

For you were King of the Flies. You gnawed at her wings.

"You've been avoiding me," you said.

"You're surprised?"

No. "What did I do? Weren't you the one insulting me?"

"Yes."

"So why were you avoiding me?" you asked

She crossed your arms. "Why _weren't _youavoiding me?"

_I don't know, I really don't. _You really don't. "Was I meant to?"

For a second, her eyes glistened as if she was about to cry. You tightened up. She didn't cry, which was great, because if she did you might have split in half once and for all.

"Were you meant to?" she echoed to herself under the breath. Then, suddenly, in a hoarse screech, "WERE YOU FUCKING MEANT TO?"

You winced.

"James Potter, you fool!"

You fool.

"I don't want you to do anything! I mean - yes, I do, but I want you to disagree! I want you to fight!"

Fight. That was something you could do.

"I want you to stand up for yourself like you do for the others. Like you stood up for the girl with the small ears, and the Hufflepuff who got his leg stuck in the trick step. Like you do for me. Why - why can't you do that for yourself?"

"I don't know."

"I'm not the girl you once loved, James Charlus Potter! Why don't you know?"

"I don't _know_!"

She kissed him.

The purple sunlight was blinding around you, and when you closed your eyes it was burnt behind your eyelids, the very essence of her branded onto your vision. Branded onto your lips, however, were hers, clumsy with rage and confusion but just as sweet. Her eyelashes were close to yours and fluttering. Your hands were on her waist, memorising the angle of the dip and curve and tracing the vague line of the bone, covered by soft flesh. And you swear you could hear the beating of wings, you really did. You were buzzing.

A few minutes afterwards, she drew away, leaving her tingling mark on your lip. "Well," she began, "what do you know now?"

"You like me."

"Moving past the obvious, please."

You rack your brain. "I need a reason to stand up for myself."

"Do you have a reason yet?"

You shake your head.

She smiles - it's warm. "Fool."

You are not a fool: you are a king.

She is your queen, you know it. She's there, cheeks aflame like her storm of hair.

* * *

**Harry Potter and its characters © Joanne Rowling**

**Thank you for reading!**


	16. Fun and Games

*** insistent, impatient, then a restless errant,**

**you must be calm in heart, fretful just in act!**

**and i now know, the sea of regret- is your native land.**

**yes, you are an unruly tide! ***

**the wave, forugh farrokhzād**

* * *

It's all fun and games until he slashes at her hand.

Blood trickles down her index finger from the cut at the tip, the colour of her hair – the cut is scarily deep. Tears well up in her eyes and burn as she freezes, tensed up, clutching at the finger.

You were so angry before, _so angry_, but now all you feel was remorse as you step towards her. Adding tears of your own, you kneel down, wipe the blood from her finger and kiss the cut.

_Regret_. The most horrible emotion of them all.

But she kneels down with you and hugs your head with her good hand, smiling against your wild hair, but don't they know it'll never work?

Ocean and fire were never meant to meet.

They dance, though. The ocean and a flame can both dance, glittering under light of the sun and moon. They can tango, they can tease, break off a little, mend a little.

It's all fun and games until the fire goes out.


End file.
